


tu fui, ego eris

by miehczyslaw



Category: Silent Hill (Video Game Series)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, Hopeful Ending, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Introspection, Non-Graphic Violence, POV Multiple, POV Second Person, Prose Poem, Psychological Horror, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Silent Hill 3, Spoilers, Weird Plot Shit, weird metaphors as well
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-17
Updated: 2018-05-17
Packaged: 2019-05-08 08:59:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14690780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miehczyslaw/pseuds/miehczyslaw
Summary: In here is a tragedy, art thou player or audience?





	tu fui, ego eris

**Author's Note:**

> i needed to write smth about sh3 it saved my miserable life.  
> the final quote (and summary) its from the game itself btw!!

  **1\. heather**

The carousel spins and spins and spins and

the horses of wood gleam, the hooves melting in fire and brimstone, while these trot in circles.

(it's always a circle, _condemned_ , that never breaks and makes you return to the same town, to the same issue, to your old self.)

Al—

You can see clearly how the world— it’s rotten and— loses its sanity. Or maybe it lacked this from the beginning? It still eats itself like a subway sewer worm between muffled moans, and limps after losing it lucky leg, that of a pink rabbit.

Innocence (lost.)

Ale—

The carousel spins and spins and spins and

you get dizzy, suddenly. Your stomach churns and your guts perform an impossible choreography, the organs hitting. _Macabre dance_. Bile gets in your throat and UGH, you need to vomit. (But not a god, no, and not in a hospital, _anywhere except a hospital_ ).

Static radio.

Ales—

Hate only breeds hate but you only feel love through your porcelain cracks with freckles. Even with the revenge (wrong, it's not what you want, it pierces your heart) that covers you like fog and the fear that rots the walls that fall like the skin of a leper.

The carousel spins and spins and spins and

what is a mirror but the reflection of your mistakes, in the end?

_Alessa_ _—_

Being blonde is not so fun.

**2\. vincent**

Is the faith just a small child who cries for affection?

It doesn’t matter.

With a knife stuck to your chest writhing, pushing, _yearning_ to go deeper and cut your lungs, you notice. (She has a terrible taste, really.) But you already knew that, right? Because God is a girl-sword with sad eyes of deer and sun-dyed hair.

It doesn’t matter.

God is a girl-sword with a look of syrup and fogged glass, which overflows with distrust towards everything you do or say. God is a girl-sword who misses her father and spits in the face of god. God is a sword-girl who kills monsters but what’s the difference between the monster and the man, where one begins and the other ends— there is no answer nor in the book of memories.

It doesn’t matter.

Because God is angry and sarcastic and beautiful and hates Claudia's religion and everything it represents, including yourself. Still, you're dying to smile at her with rotten teeth, one last time. You could have worshiped her if you weren’t so disdainful of good and evil, sadly the gray dichotomy was more interesting.

Well.

It doesn’t matter.

God hates you. And your breathing becomes slower and slower until it stops and She’s not going to save your soul. How fortunate to not have to spend money on your funeral. Although is a real shame too. You're going to mess up this pigpen more.

 _Now, now_ —

It doesn’t really matter.

Let's lower our heads and pray, brothers.

**3\. claudia**

Without suffering there is no PARADISE.

“Forgive us Father because we have sinned!”

There was once upon a time a mother who sacrificed her daughter for a greater— and false— good. There was once upon a time a mother who cradled her daughter with their screams which bite them both into the flames, and with her fingernails nailing into her _tenderwhiteimpure_ flesh until the silence devoured them delicately. There was once upon a time a mother who decided to adopt the humankind and breastfeed it and who bathed herself with the blood of a witch who was actually a door for the Lord (pagans they’re all pagans _mercy_ ).

There was once upon a time a mother but everyone already knows that story. And the truth is—

“Forgive us Father because we have sinned.”

—there was once a father, too. Equally cruel and vile, whose hobby was sabotaging his daughter. Not the witch, ah, another one. Clauuuuuuuudiaaaaaaaaaaa. Kick, kick, howl, you must believe, silly brat! Don’t you know that the most happy people are the most miserable as well? The daughter adored the mother and despised the father and loved (sincerely, before) the-door-nevermore-girl, until she was made ashes and oaths of punishment. The daughter took the place of the mother then, and became Priestess and cruel, since happy people can be so, so cruel... the daughter was a wolf and the lonely wolves devour themselves, mutilating and hurting others. In the name of the Lord and his imminent resurrection, in the name of the witch (return to yourself my sweetest friend, return to me).

But the once again girl-no longer door was stolen by the man and hidden away.

“Forgive us Father because we have sinned!”

And the daughter. No, the wolf, she needs to get her back. At any cost.

The man doesn’t deserve her! and she, Alessa, she is—

Even if she breaks herself, even if the whole world is burning, even if the Order turns its back on her, even if she has to swallow the vomit of animpostor and melt like red snow. _You are dust and dust you will be_. It's okay if you hate me Heather, it's better that way.

After all

Without paradise there is no SUFFERING.

Oh.

“Forgive us Father, why have we sinned...?”

**4\. douglas**

You look at the sky.

Blue, bright, cloudless.

 _There_.

Gray, dark, cloudy.

 _Here_.

You think: Superman would be able to fly over it with ease and without worry, he would be able to reach any crime scene in time, save someone else, anyone who requires it—

(an idiot brat with a gun in his scratchy and clumsy hands ready to steal a bank despite the risks; or an almost-razor orphan girl who wanders through a silent town inhabited by monsters)

—without feeling used or losing against a religious madwoman or doubting if killing a teenager to prevent hell is the correct thing to do. Probably. But youth is so stupid. And you are too fucking old. No, that scratches the ridiculous. Sir, you need to take your medicine and stop considering such nonsense, retire.

Even. Even if, perhaps, there is a possibility that Superman could not deal with this. With deformed beings and a dead son who hates you and a daughter (not yours) who loves you and divorces and a wounded leg and God.

“Corpses don’t cry, you silly brat.”

Less if there isn’t a grave. _Why should there be a grave?_

And Heather looks at you with something similar to understanding and sorrow and, well. You note it with only a little surprise, already sensing it in advance.

She’s so young and already goes to the war to save everyone, to rescue herself.

Superheroes are overrated.

Even so, you want to help her.

Even so, you remember the sound of your son's body falling to the ground, inert and cold.

Even so, your hurt leg stings and you barely manage to walk and it's a fucking joke. Everything. A clean movement. It’s all you need. Shoot her, you can. No, lies, you're still not Superman.

The sky— the sky is far away from your reach, dammit.

And with the gun loaded and heavy between your fingers

you can’t pull the trigger.

Heather leaves.

(Not all heroes wear capes, sir.)

**5\. cheryl**

And that’s the end.

The lights go out and the curtain closes and the nightmare falls asleep.

Dad is not dad but he always loved you, more than his own life. You’re not you but neither is she, and you could learn to love yourself— _to know yourself_ , maybe. There is time to decipher it, so you don’t worry (no more). You breathe, deep.

Loneliness is too sad. But now you’re going home, you’re going to be okay.

Because:

**0\. (God)**

_the sun (still) bleeds inside_

—you

.

.

.

[in here is a tragedy

art thou player or audience?] 


End file.
